Anri POV
Lucien reached for my hand—quietly, deliberately—and I let him take it.
His fingers curled around mine like it was inevitable. Like he already knew I'd follow.
He didn't speak. Just led me out of the party, down through the quiet lobby, and into the underground garage. His car waited in a reserved space—black, sleek, predatory. It looked like it could eat the night whole.
He opened the door for me. I slid in. Leather seats, low lighting, the faint trace of his cologne embedded into everything. He rounded the hood and climbed in beside me.
Still silent.
He started the engine. The growl of it sent a shiver through me.
We pulled out into the city—fast. Faster than we should have. Lucien drove like he was chasing something. Or maybe outrunning it. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, tense.
I was still reeling from the kiss.
My lips tingled like they remembered the shape of his. My skin buzzed with leftover electricity. And every time I glanced at him—at the tight line of his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the wheel—I felt it all over again.
He drove like the city wasn't there. Like red lights didn't apply. Like he needed to get me alone as fast as humanly possible. And I let him. I wanted him to.
The tension between us was unbearable. We weren't touching, but it felt like we were already on fire.
I watched his hands—how tightly he gripped the wheel, how his knuckles blanched. Like he was barely keeping something caged.
I'd spent days pretending I didn't feel this. Pretending I didn't notice the way his eyes lingered on my lips across the dinner table. The way his gaze dropped to my thighs when I shifted in my seat. The way he looked at me like he was remembering how I tasted—before he ever touched me.
But he never kissed me.
Not once.
Just watched. Just smirked.
Like he could hold out forever.
And I hated how much I needed him to break first.
By the time we pulled into his building's private garage, I was shaking. Not from fear—but anticipation. Need.
He parked with a sharp, precise turn. Killed the engine. And for a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he opened his door and stepped out.
I followed him into the elevator, pulse in my throat. He hit the top floor button.
The ride up was silent. The kind of silence you feel in your spine. His arm brushed mine, and even that light contact was too much—too charged. I was already wound tight.
When the elevator doors slid open, we stepped directly into his penthouse.
And I stopped.
It was massive. Wall-to-wall windows made the entire city look like it had been laid out just for him. Marble floors glowed beneath soft, deliberate lighting. The furniture was minimalist, impossibly expensive—dark wood, cool metal, clean lines. Everything curated. Everything calm. Everything sharp.
It smelled like him. Cologne and something darker—earthy, warm. Like night air and heat.
I stepped inside, almost cautiously. Like if I moved too quickly, I might shatter whatever this was.
Lucien turned to face me.
His expression was unreadable. But his body was all tension, like he was holding himself back with every breath.
"I didn't kiss you this week," he said, voice low, walking toward me, "because I knew the second I did..."
He stopped mid-sentence.
I swallowed hard. "What?" My voice came out unsteady.
He reached for me—fingertips grazing my wrist.
"And then the rain," he murmured. "That white dress. Soaked through. Clinging to you like second skin. Nearly transparent by the time I got you in the car. You didn't even realize what you looked like. What you did to me."
"Lucien..." I breathed. But it barely came out.
He smirked—slow, wrecking. His hands ghosted over my waist, not settling yet. His restraint was paper-thin.
Heat rose up my neck, flushed my cheeks, curled low in my stomach.
"I've been holding back," he said, moving closer. "Every dinner. Every glance. Every night I sat across from you and told myself to behave."
His lips brushed my ear. "You have no idea how hard that was."
My breath faltered. My legs tensed. I felt heat pool deep inside me, an ache I'd been ignoring too long.
But I wasn't the only one falling apart.
I'd wanted him. Every time he looked at me like he owned me, something in me unraveled. I tried to walk away from him once. I was lying to myself when I did.
"You don't even know what you do to me." he said, voice gravel-thick.
"Then show me," I whispered.
That broke the last of his restraint.
Lucien kissed me again—hard.
Like restraint was no longer an option. Like holding back had been killing him.
His hands clutched my waist, strong and possessive, and suddenly I was in the air. A soft gasp escaped me as he lifted me off the floor like I weighed nothing.
I didn't even have time to process before he was walking—fast, purposeful, jaw set. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders instinctively, heart hammering against my ribs.
He carried me through the wide, polished penthouse like a man on a mission, saying nothing, breathing hard. His fingers flexed around me like he was barely holding it together.
He didn't slow down until we reached the bedroom.
And then—he dropped me onto the bed.
Not rough enough to hurt, but enough to make me bounce slightly against the sheets, hair fanned out, breath knocked from my chest.
I barely had time to blink before he was on top of me.
"Lucien—"
He growled.
His mouth crashed onto mine, desperate, claiming. His body pressed into me, full weight, full heat, like he couldn't get close enough. I kissed him back like I was starving, fingers already fumbling at the buttons of his shirt.
But he was faster.
One sharp tug, and the zipper at the back of my dress gave way.
"Lucien—"
"I've been waiting days to tear this off you."
He wasn't exaggerating.
The rip of fabric echoed in the room—rough, deliberate. His hands dragged my dress down, bunching the soft fabric around my waist like it was nothing but a barrier. He paused the moment he saw the lace underneath.
"Fuck," he muttered, gaze igniting. "Look at you."
His fingers skimmed my sides, then up—slow, reverent. His weight pressed me gently into the mattress, pinning me there. I could feel him watching my face as his hands slid under my back, unhooking my bra with practiced ease.
The lace slipped away. I shivered under the air and his stare.
"You wore this for me?"
I opened my mouth, but no sound came. He didn't need the answer.
He leaned down and kissed the curve of my breast—just a ghost of contact. Then again, firmer. His hand came up to cup the other, thumb brushing over the nipple, making it pebble instantly under his touch.
I gasped.
"Mmh," he hummed, lips now dragging across my skin, tongue flicking, teasing. "Sensitive."
He took one into his mouth, slow and warm, and sucked—gently at first, then with more purpose. His tongue swirled, then flattened, then teased again until I moaned, arching into him. His other hand massaged the breast he wasn't kissing, fingers brushing, tugging lightly on the peak until I writhed beneath him.
"You feel everything, don't you?" he murmured against my skin. "Every touch."
I whimpered. He grinned.
"I could do this for hours," he whispered. "Watch you beg just from this."
He flicked his tongue again and again, then grazed his teeth across the tip. My back arched involuntarily, hands tangled in the sheets.
"Look at you," he said, voice low. "I haven't even touched your pussy yet."
His hand moved slowly—trailing down my stomach, making me gasp before it even reached the waistband of my panties. He didn't rush. Just traced the lace, fingers barely brushing over the damp center.
I jolted, thighs tensing. He chuckled darkly.
"Oh?" His thumb pressed down—not enough to give relief, just enough to make me ache. "You're already wet."
He leaned down again, lips now between my breasts, then lower, tongue following the path of his hand.
"You've been aching for this," he said, dragging his thumb in slow circles over the soaked fabric. "You want me to touch you properly, don't you?"
"Yes," I whispered, barely audible.
"Not yet."
He pressed another kiss to my breast, open-mouthed and hungry, and rolled his hips down against mine—just enough friction to make me gasp.
Then—he slid two fingers under the lace. But instead of going in, he stopped.
"You're already dripping," he said, watching my face. "But I want you to say it."
"Say what?" I gasped.
"That you want me to ruin you."
I stared up at him—heart pounding, skin flushed, nipples swollen and still tingling from his mouth. "I want you- you to ruin me."
He smiled.
"Good girl."
And then—he slid his fingers into me, finally, while his mouth returned to my breast with a moan.
Then he slid his fingers into me—slow, deliberate—while his mouth latched back onto my breast like he couldn't decide what part of me he wanted to ruin first.
I gasped, hips bucking slightly off the bed, chasing the friction. But his free hand was already on my waist, holding me down with just enough force to make my pulse stutter.
"Stay still," he murmured against my skin, voice vibrating through my chest. "Let me feel you."
His fingers moved slowly at first, curling gently, exploring me from the inside like he wanted to memorize how I felt all over again. His thumb pressed against my clit, not with pressure—but with rhythm, dragging lazy circles that made me whimper, thighs trembling.
All while his mouth sucked and swirled at my breasts—first one, then the other—tongue circling, teeth scraping just enough to make me cry out.
I was undone. Spread out beneath him, wrists clutching the sheets, breath shaky and fast. And he was watching me—watching every reaction like he was drinking it in.
"You like that?" he asked, voice dark, lips brushing my nipple.
I nodded, but it wasn't enough. He wanted words.
"Yes," I gasped. "I—God, yes."
He grinned and dragged his teeth gently across the sensitive skin again, then sucked harder. My back arched, thighs squeezing around his hand as his fingers moved deeper, faster, thumb circling tighter.
But just as I started to get close, just when the pressure coiled hard and tight in my belly—he stopped.
I let out a desperate noise, hips twitching, aching for him to keep going. But he pulled his fingers out slowly, like he was savoring it. My body pulsed around nothing.
He looked down at me, smug and starving.
I reached for him, wanting—needing—something, anything.
But he caught my wrist with one hand and pinned it above my head.
"Not yet," he said again, softly, like it was a promise. "I'm not done playing with you."
Then he dipped his head lower—past my stomach, past the lace still clinging loosely to my thighs. He kissed just above the waistband, then again lower, hot breath against my skin.
He slid my panties all the way off this time. Tossed them aside.
I was bare now. Open. His.
He kissed the inside of my thigh slowly, reverently, his hands spreading my legs wider.
"I want you to remember how this feels," he said, voice rough. "Every time you close your eyes."
And then—his mouth was on me.
Warm, slow, devastating.
He licked up the center of me with a deep groan, like he'd waited months to taste me again. My hands clutched the sheets above my head, body shuddering as he flattened his tongue and dragged it over me again and again—torturously slow.
Then he sucked. Flicked. Swirled.
I cried out—high and helpless—as the pleasure built again, sharper this time. My thighs tensed, but he gripped them down, his forearms bracketing my hips so I couldn't move.
"Take it," he murmured, tongue still working me. "Take every fucking second."
Two fingers slid into me again, curling just right. My vision blurred. My moans turned into broken, desperate gasps.
"Lucien—"
"Look at me," he said, lifting his eyes up without stopping. "Look at me while you come."
I tried.
But my body betrayed me.
The orgasm hit fast—rising hard and merciless—until I was crying out, shaking, thighs clamping around his head as he held me through it, lapping up everything, groaning like he was the one coming.
I collapsed against the bed, chest heaving, limbs useless.
He kissed my thigh once more before moving back up my body—mouth shiny, eyes wrecked, voice low.
"You taste like heaven."
He hovered above me, thumb brushing my jaw.
"I'm going to fuck you now," he whispered. "And you're going to fall apart again."
And God help me—I wanted to.
He pulled back from me, chest rising fast, jaw tight.
Then he stood.
And undressed.
Lucien took his time—but not in a performative, showy way. He was just deliberate. In control. And it was infuriatingly hot.
I watched him unbutton his shirt, one flick at a time. I knew what was underneath, but the reveal still made my breath hitch.
His chest was solid—broad and sculpted, like he was carved from tension and restraint. Not shiny gym muscle, not the lean prettiness of actors I worked with on set. Lucien was real. Heavy shoulders, thick arms, a deep-cut V down his hips that made my thighs squeeze together involuntarily.
He tossed the shirt aside and started on his belt.
My eyes locked there.
The sound of the buckle unclasping—metallic, sharp—felt louder than it should've been. Like it echoed in my bones. My hips rolled against the sheets without thinking, aching for him.
He caught it. Of course he did.
"Too impatient?" he muttered, voice low and rough.
I hated how much I whimpered at that.
The belt came free. Pants dropped. Then his boxers.
And holy fuck.
Thick. Heavy. Already hard, the flushed tip glistening. He was so much. My whole body clenched around nothing.
Lucien didn't smirk. Didn't pose. He just grabbed a condom somewhere, ripped it open with one hand, and rolled it on like he was doing a job—efficient, focused.
When he climbed back on top of me, his skin was fever-warm against mine. His abs brushed my stomach—tight, ridged muscle under smooth skin. I wanted to touch, to trace, to sink my nails into him. But he caught my wrists and pinned them above my head.
When he climbed back on top of me, his skin was fever-hot against mine—like he was burning from the inside out.
His abs brushed my stomach, ridged and hard, flexing with every breath. His weight, his heat, the scent of sweat and clean skin—him—was everywhere, pressing down on me, anchoring me.
I wanted to touch. To run my fingers over his chest, down the cut lines of his stomach, to pull him closer.
But he caught my wrists and pinned them above my head with one strong hand.
"I'm fucking you," he said, voice low, already shaking. "Don't move."
The look on his face—it wasn't smug. It wasn't even cocky. He looked wrecked with need. Like he'd been starving and finally had a taste.
I didn't move.
He lined himself up—cock thick, flushed, heavy—and pressed in with one long, brutal thrust that had me gasping, arching off the bed.
"Luc—" I cried out. My body stretched around him, trying to take all of him, trying to keep him.
"Still so fucking tight. You're gonna kill me." he hissed through clenched teeth.
He didn't wait. Didn't let me adjust. He couldn't.
He fucked me—hard. Every thrust deep, unrelenting, like he couldn't get close enough. His body slammed into mine again and again, rough hands keeping me pinned beneath him.
His free hand gripped my thigh and shoved it higher around his waist, opening me wider. Exposing everything.
"You missed this?" he groaned.
"Yes," I gasped.
He dropped his head and bit down on my shoulder—messy, claiming, not gentle at all—and it only made me cry out louder.
"You feel what you do to me?" he growled, voice cracking. "You're all I think about."
His hips started snapping faster—sloppy, wild, like control had fully slipped. He couldn't stop. Didn't want to.
His mouth dragged over my neck, hot and open, then over my chest, biting and sucking at the curve of my breast like he was starved.
"You're gonna come again," he said, voice breaking.
And I was already there.
The stretch, the rhythm, the filthy way he looked down at me like I belonged to him—it was too much. My whole body clenched, spiraled.
"Lucien—!"
I shattered.
Writhing. Gasping. My body tightened around him so hard I felt him jerk inside me, a rough groan breaking from his throat as he came—slamming in deep, hips stuttering. He held me like he didn't want to let go.
He stayed there, breathing hard, his body heavy on mine. Sweat clung to our skin. My heart was still racing.
For a moment, we didn't speak. Just lay there, tangled, catching our breath.
Then he shifted slightly, bracing himself on his forearms, and looked down at me.
His face was flushed. Hair a mess. Eyes dark and a little wide, like he hadn't fully come down yet.
There wasn't a smirk. No teasing.
He leaned in and kissed me—slower this time. Steady. His mouth was warm and a little shaky, like he wasn't in a rush to pull away.
When he pulled back, he didn't say much. Just brushed his thumb across my cheek and whispered, voice low:
"You're driving me insane."